Page 90 of Angel

I swallowed the lump in my throat, focusing on settling into my new room.

Tamping down my need and craving for him.

Later that evening at dinner, Angel moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, searing garlic-butter lamb chops in a cast-iron skillet; the savory aroma of his spice rub filled the air.

He also prepared Yukon Gold potatoes roasted in the pan drippings until crisp, alongside charred broccolini tossed with lemon zest and sea salt.

We sat side by side on barstools at the island, avoiding the formal dining table, where we’d be forced to look each other in the eye.

The atmosphere was one of quiet civility, the only sound that of our forks and knives clinking on our plates.

After we ate, I stood at the sink, washing and rinsing, stepping back each time he reached for a plate to dry it.

We moved like two platonic roommates, careful not to let our skin brush, operating with a stiff, unnatural courtesy.

He never touched me.

The breathless, savage, and sensational sex we shared in Capri now seemed like a dream, a hazy vision that was already slipping from my memory.

I missed the laughter, intimacy, and ease we experienced those last few days of our unintended honeymoon.

I wondered if that sensual version of my husband would ever come back to me.

The following day, I found him in the kitchen at breakfast.

He was pouring black coffee into a mug, dressed in inky denim and a faded band tee, handsome as fuck.

‘Morning,’ I murmured in the quiet room.

‘Hey,’ he replied, setting the pot down without looking at me. ‘Coffee’s hot.’

That’s when I pulled up my big girl boots and took an inhale.

‘Hey, Angel, I’m sorry for losing it at you before we left Capri.’

He reared back in surprise, eyes raking me.

‘I’m the one who has to apologize for being a dick.’

‘You were one at the end, but I forgive you,’ I told him with a wry smile.

We eyed each other for a beat before his mouth quirked.

‘Truce?’

I nodded.

‘Good luck at the studio today.’

What else could I say?

‘Appreciate it,’ he grunted, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of the chair. ‘By the way, the removalists are locked in and will be waiting for you at your place. They’re end-to-end, so they’ll pack and unpack so please don’t overwork yourself. Also, don’t wait up tonight; I might be late.’

With that, he sauntered toward his underground garage, and I soon caught the growl of his Defender racing away.

Later, I drove to my little apartment and guided the removal team.

I picked out my clothes and folded the others away, which went into storage, along with my furniture and kitchenware.